


Justified Juice

by Batshit_Bogs



Series: Through the Mirror [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne-centric, Damian is still a little shit but he's trying, Damian wayne is a good big bro, Duke is a little bean, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Damian Wayne, Reverse Robins, They get what they deserve, Tim is there very briefly, he's like 11, same with his parents, some bitch-ass gotham elites insinuate racist stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batshit_Bogs/pseuds/Batshit_Bogs
Summary: If Damian has to hear one more elite coo over how ‘small and cute’ he is, he’s going to grab the nearest knife and start stabbing people.-Okay, so maybe Damian cares about Duke a little.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Duke Thomas & Damian Wayne
Series: Through the Mirror [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937332
Comments: 16
Kudos: 298





	Justified Juice

**Author's Note:**

> This is alternate P.O.V to a scene in my fic Spectators Rarely Stay on the Sidelines. But I don't really like that fic and might rewrite it, so like...when Tim has a panic attack, it's because he's just realized that Bruce & Damian are Batman & Wren. Also this was beta-ed by a wonderful friend of mine, she really improved this fic
> 
> Everyone's ages are:  
> Bruce: 30  
> Damian: 13  
> Duke: 11  
> Tim: 9
> 
> **CWs**  
>  _\- racist insinuations / language_  
>  _\- descriptions of a panic attack_
> 
> I think that's it, but if I missed something lemme know

If Damian has to hear one more elite coo over how ‘small and cute’ he is, he’s going to grab the nearest knife and start stabbing people. Not that he would (he has a promise to uphold, after all), but he’d do it mentally. Violently. 

One of the overdressed women pinches his cheek. It takes every ounce of willpower not to bite her hand.

“Look at you,” she smarms, “with your little glass of… what is it?”

Damian grits his teeth and manages to say in a polite voice, “Sparkling grape juice.”

The gaggle of wenches titter. _Titter._ Like it’s some adorable, quaint thing to drink sparkling juice - which it isn’t! Plenty of people here are likely drinking it. Damian had tried to get his hands on a champagne flute, but each time Father had swooped in out of nowhere and plucked it from his hands. 

_‘You’re thirteen Damian, you can’t have alcohol.’_

_Mother_ let Damian have a small glass of wine or champagne at big League functions. He takes a sip from his glass and scowls. It’s tasty, yes, much more so than champagne, but he doesn’t value taste above dignity. A Wayne-Al-Ghul should be able to drink as he pleases. 

“Where’s your daddy?” one of the women says. Damian has come to calling her Raccoon, as the amount of makeup around her eyes makes her resemble one.

Damian almost sneers at her wording. “Father,” he says stiffly, “is likely showing the newest addition to the household how to act at a gala.”

The women lean back and tut at each other.

“Right, he acquired a new… what is he?”

“Thomas is Father’s ward.” Damian’s scowl deepens. ‘Ward,’ not son. Thomas was supposed to be a foster child simply living in their home, but then Father made the decision (without consulting Damian, as he should have) to promote him to _ward._

He’s threatening Damian’s place in the family. At least Thomas is nearly two full years younger than him, so that gives Damian an edge. Father wouldn’t dare cast his eldest blood son aside for the shiny new model. 

That’s not to mention how annoying Thomas is. He’s constantly pestering Damian, to the point where Damian suspects he’s pushing his buttons on purpose. It’s always, ‘You draw? Can I see?’ or ‘Come watch this movie with me, maybe you’ll relax for once.’ These days Damian can’t get a moment to himself. Thomas is always around the corner, and _really--_ it should be easier to avoid someone in a building as large as the manor. Damian’s only respite is in the cave - Thomas isn’t in on the big secret. If Damian has it his way, he never will be.

“Ward,” Raccoon echoes with obvious distaste. 

Vulture (named for her beakish nose and beady, hungry eyes) says to Damian, “And how are you faring with such an… _intruder_ in the house?”

Damian falters for a moment. He isn’t sure why, but the way she said ‘intruder’ sounded…. wrong. 

“Not to mention some street kid from the Narrows,” Cling Wrap (named for her disturbing dress) remarks. “I wouldn’t let that _child_ anywhere near my home.”

“Here’s hoping he doesn’t rob poor Brucie,” Raccoon sighs.

Oh.

Damian narrows his eyes and clenches his free hand into a fist. This, unfortunately, is a familiar scene. He still remembers the things said about him when Father first revealed him to the public. At the time, he had scoffed them off. It didn’t take long for their words to get to him, not that he showed it. These things cut deep, no matter how strong you think you are. 

“Thomas has shown exemplary behavior,” Damian says as evenly as he can. Yes, he irritates Damian to no end, but he is, for lack of a better term, a ‘good kid’. 

“So far,” Heels (aptly named as well) mutters into her drink.

“It will forever elude me why Brucie felt the need to take in a charity case,” Vulture says.

Damian bristles and snaps, “Thomas is _not_ a charity case!”

The women pause for a moment to stare down at him, each clearly affronted. Cling Wrap exchanges an alarmed look with Heels.

Damian takes a deep breath, employing the counting method Pennyworth taught him. He isn’t sure why he got so defensive - he’s called Thomas a charity case plenty of times since his arrival. But hearing it from these women’s mouths… they mean it. Damian never does - it’s meant to ruffle Thomas’ feathers and assert Damian’s dominance, nothing more. 

“Apologies,” he forces himself to say. “That was out of turn.”

“No worries, my dear boy,” Heels says.

“It is a little. . . _surprising_ that you might feel so strongly about a boy from his background,” Raccoon adds.

Damian’s eye twitches.

“It’s no surprise,” Vulture mutters as if Damian isn’t _right there._ “The two children are very similar.”

Deep breaths. Act civil. Be better.

“That little Duke boy seems positively _menacing._ How Brucie feels safe in his own home with that boy running around, I’ll never know.”

That. Is. _It._

Damian splashes his grape juice all over her pristine white dress. Vulture screeches and stumbles back, babbling incoherently as her fellow wenches scramble to get the dark purple out of the fabric. They won’t.

Damian turns on his heel and storms off, scowling enough to curdle milk. He places his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and pricks his ears for Father’s signature ‘gala laugh.’ Damian has decided that they are going to leave. Now.

Of all the words to describe Thomas, menacing isn’t one of them. He defends himself and his parents fiercely, which Damian can (grudgingly) admire, but that’s as far as it goes. He enjoys watching movies, writing, and various games. Not that Damian has taken an interest in his hobbies, it’s just hard to ignore when Thomas is trying to get him to join in such trivial things.

He’s kind with Titus, and quickly gained Pennyworth and Father’s favor. 

Anything said against him will not be tolerated, and those women were out of line. Damian had no one to defend his name when he arrived, and Wren is not one to stand by. 

Damian catches a glimpse of Father through the crowd at the buffet table. Thomas is standing in front of him, smiling, and next to him is a tiny stick of a boy. 

“Father,” Damian snaps, marching up to Father and ignoring the two children, “I demand we leave this infernal gathering at once!”

The easy slope of Father’s shoulders tense. “Damian, we still have an hour left until we have to leave, as I told you fifteen minutes ago.”

Yes, he had said that. Damian forces down a wince - he does not enjoy causing his father stress, and he is clearly ruining what must’ve been a pleasant conversation. Still, this is no place to be vulnerable, so he merely crosses his arms and scoffs. 

This is also no place for Thomas to be. And who is this child he was clearly talking to? 

“Thomas,” Damian says, scanning the stranger. 

He looks a little thinner than a boy his age should be - he’s nine, give or take. Though on second thought, he might be younger, given his small stature. In all honesty, he looks closer to a street kid than an elite’s child. If not for the nicely pressed suit and finely combed hair, Damian would have assumed he had snuck in. Pity for him--since elite children have a tendency to be unnaturally mean, Damian would have made sure a street kid had left with many treats in their pockets. 

“I see you’re fraternizing with the drivel,” Damian says.

The child flinches. Interesting. Just self-conscious, or something deeper? He certainly isn’t projecting the typical body language of an arrogant elite’s offspring. 

Thomas’ smile is sharp. “It’s okay, Damian, no need to be jealous. It’s not your fault you can’t make friends - oh, wait.”

Damian eagerly rises to the bait. It’s a welcome distraction from the confusing feelings swirling in his chest. “I do not need to make ‘friends’ with children.”

He already has friends. Okay, one friend. Fine, an acquaintance. Jonathan Kent is more of an irritation that won’t leave him alone.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a kid,” Thomas counters.

“I am a _teenager_.”

“ _Pre-_ teen, _Dami.”_

Damian seethes. He hates that irksome nickname, and yet Thomas insists on using it all the time. He almost takes a step forward, but Father grabs him by the shoulder.

(It does not go unnoticed by Damian that the unnamed child Thomas befriended flinches ever so slightly. It doesn’t seem like he even realized it himself.)

“Boys,” Father rumbles, “no fighting at a gala. Damian, be the bigger person, as we’ve discussed.”

At his father’s words, Damian can’t help the surge of irritation as he remembers what those women said. ‘Be the bigger person!’ -Yeah, sure, unless the other party is insulting your— Damian cuts off that train of thought. Thomas is _temporary_. As soon as his parents recover from the Joker’s attack, he will go back to living with them, and he’ll be out of Damian’s life forever.

“Tt,” Damian mutters, stepping out of Father’s hold.

The boy flinches again. He’s flinched an alarming amount, too much to be normal. Not only that, but what little color was in his face has completely drained, and his breath is coming in short gasps as his eyes unfocus.

Damian recognizes the symptoms of a panic attack easily, and it’s all he can do not to slide into Wren mode. This is a gala, where he has built a reputation as a disinterested brat. To be seen comforting a child would put his identity at risk, not to mention what the papers would say. Vale would have a field day. 

So he forces himself to stay still as Father takes charge with Thomas at his side.

“Whoah, Tim?” Thomas says, putting a hand on the child’s—Tim, no, it must be Timothy— shoulder. “You good?”

Father leans over and reaches out, then hesitates and draws his hand back. He was likely going to brush Timothy’s hair back or squeeze his shoulder before remembering that this is not his child. 

“Tim, breathe for us, okay?” Father says. Timothy gasps in a small breath and blinks rapidly. “Tim? Tim, are you alright?”

Damian carefully looks anywhere but at the scene in front him, keeping up his aloof persona as he studies his cuffs. Clearly Timothy is not alright. That’s a stupid question to ask. What Father should be doing is bringing Timothy somewhere quiet with some water and—no, Damian does not care. He does. Not. Care.

“W-what?” Timothy stutters. 

Father’s voice is getting dangerously close to his ‘Batman comforting victims’ tone when he says, “I was asking if you’re alright, chum. You’ve gone pale.”

Pale is an understatement. Timothy is one shade away from transparent.

“Fine! I’m fine,” he says quickly— an obvious lie. He steps away from them, shaking worse than a civilian on fear toxin. “I, uh, I think my parents are waving me over, excuse me.”

Before any of them can get a word in, Timothy darts into the crowd and vanishes.

“Tim, wait!” Thomas calls after him, but it’s too late. Damian scowls and drops the disinterested act of checking his suit for wrinkles. 

Father is frowning at the space Timothy disappeared, radiating concern. It’s almost infectious. Almost. 

“I’m going to make sure his parents know he’s looking for them,” Father says. 

“I’m coming with,” Thomas says before Damian can even open his mouth. He shoots Thomas an annoyed look, but Thomas maturely sticks his tongue out in return.

“We’ll be leaving soon anyway,” Father says with a meaningful glance at Damian.

‘ _We’re talking about your outburst later.’_

Damian lifts his chin.

‘ _Very well, as long as we leave.’_

Thomas raises an eyebrow at their exchange. As inexperienced as he is, he likely didn’t pick up on their microexpressions. Amateur. If he’s to survive in upper Gotham society, he’ll have to learn how to read subtle body language. 

Father sighs through his nose and turns to the crowd, 'Brucie’s' stupidly pleasant mask plastered over his face. Damian and Thomas follow in his wake as he slides through the crowded ballroom floor with ease. The elitists part easily, throwing him flirtatious glances and reproachful looks. Some try to wave him over, but he deflects their attention with inane comments that have them chuckling and turning away. 

Dealing with high Gothamites is a skill Father has perfected. Damian almost finds it admirable, if not for how ridiculous it makes his father look. 

Damian doesn’t pay much attention when they stop by an ostentatious couple. Their clothing, along with the jewels around the woman’s neck, are obnoxiously fancy, and it’s easy to tell that the diamond necklace is fake. A few glances tell him that yes, these are Timothy’s parents. He has his father’s eyes and his mother’s lean face. 

They greet Father with fake gusto, the woman already trying to suck up to him. Damian tries not to sneer, and the motion turns into a half smirk when he catches Thomas rolling his eyes. Their gazes meet, and Damian looks away, stopping himself before he smiles for real. Thomas snorts and shakes his head.

“Our son?” the woman is saying. Something sharp glints in her eye. “What about our dear Timothy?”

“He wasn’t looking well when I last saw him,” Father says. “I was just wondering if either of you had seen him. Jack?”

‘Jack’ scrunches his nose up in mock-thought. “I believe I last saw him with the Taylors.”

Father nods, and turns his attention back to the woman. “Janet?”

“I have not seen him either,” she says smoothly. 

Damian notices how tense her shoulders are, and how cold her eyes have become. There’s something else going on here. He narrows his eyes at her.

“Though if Timothy isn’t feeling well, I suppose we should bring him home,” she continues. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Wayne.”

“Please, call me Bruce,” Father says. “And send my regards to Tim, please. He’s a good kid.”

Janet preens, straightening her posture. “Thank you, _Bruce._ I’ll pass the message along.”

She slips her arm around Jack’s elbow and steers him off into the crowd, walking stiffly.

Father grimaces once she’s out of sight. It appears he has caught onto what Damian noticed as well.

“Who were those people, exactly?” Damian asks. 

“The Drakes,” Father says. His voice is getting lower, closer to Batman’s again. “Tim’s parents.”

“They seem… sketchy,” Thomas says slowly. 

Father grunts. Damian is also inclined to agree. He has come to understand that when a parent is informed that their child is unwell, they become concerned. If Damian didn’t know any better, he’d venture to guess that Janet Drake appeared irritated.

That’s not normal.

“Certainly it was nothing,” Damian says, casting a sharp look at his father.

‘ _You’ll look into it later, won’t you?’_

Father briefly presses his lips into a line.

‘ _Of course I will. Alone.’_

“Tt,” Damian scoffs. 

“What is with that?” Thomas says, growing at them. 

“What?” Father says, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“That creepy telepathy thing you two’ve got going on. It’s like you’re having entire conversations in your minds.”

Father’s confusion changes into amusement. He slips his hands into his pockets, chuckling. Damian can’t stop a small smirk from appearing on his face.

“Father and I are simply well adjusted to each other’s facial cues,” Damian says with pride. 

It’s a skill he’s glad to share with his father. It’s taken countless hours fighting, training, and living side-by-side to get to this point of silent communication. A single blink can convey an entire paragraph of information.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “You guys get weirder every day.”

“We do our best,” Father says, eyes twinkling. 

His lighthearted manner disappears when a shrill voice cries out from the crowd.

“Bruce Wayne, control your child!”

All three of them turn around to see the harpies that had cornered Damian earlier making a beeline for them. Damian instinctively pulls Thomas behind him, and he feels a small hand grip the back of his jacket. Ignoring the protectiveness flaring up in his chest, Damian lifts his chin, preparing for the coming scrutiny. Father won’t be pleased.

But Damian is, and that’s what matters. Vulture’s dress has been ruined forever, marred with a huge purplish patch dead center on her torso. No doubt her attempts to get it out worsened the stain. Good. 

Father partially steps in front of Damian, grinning again. It’s painfully fake.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says, oozing charm. “What can I do for you?”

“Your - your _feral brat_ of a child ruined my hundred-thousand dollar dress!” Vulture shrieks. 

Father’s posture stiffens. The easy expression slides right off of his face. “Do _not_ speak about my son that way,” he growls.

Damian hacks away the warmth blooming in his chest with a mental sword. It’s been some time since he’s been publicly referred to as ‘feral,’ or a ‘brat’. It’s also been some time since he’s seen Father become protective of him outside of vigilante work. He has to admit, it’s a weird—nice?—feeling.

Vulture shrinks back ever so slightly. Heels steps in to say, “Then control him better! He acted completely out of turn.”

“Damian,” Father says, turning slightly so that he can see him, “Did you ruin Ms…?”

“Wells,” Vulture says primly.

“Ms. Wells’ dress?”

“Yes,” Damian says without hesitation. “It was warranted, Father.”

Father’s jaw tightens and he turns back to the women. He smiles, all teeth and no charm, and says, “I’ll give him a stern talking to.”

Vulture raises an eyebrow. 

His smile turns into more of a grimace. “And he will be grounded.”

“Until you can correct this horrid behavior,” Cling Wrap says, nodding. “Wise choice, Brucie.”

The grimace turns into a scowl. 

“Give him a slap on the wrist for me,” Vulture sniffs. With that, she turns on her heel and all but flies away, her gaggle at her heels. 

Father takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it go. Damian internally winces - this night was going well, and his father seemed to be having a decent time for once. Now Damian’s ruined it. Not that he’d take it back though, not at all.

“Dude,” Thomas whispers, letting go of Damian’s jacket and stepping around him to look him in the eye. There’s a bit of a smile on his face. “Did you really do that?”

“I already confessed,” Damian snaps. He tries not to feel the pang of guilt in his chest when Thomas withdraws, his smile morphing into a frown.

“Okay, sorry,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

This night could not have gone any worse. Well… that’s a lie, but Damian isn’t in the mood to curtail his exaggeration.

Father glances at the groups of people staring and whispering and sends them a tight lipped smile. He turns hardened eyes on Damian. “We’re going home.”

_‘We’re talking about this in the car.’_

Damian nods tightly : ‘ _I’m more than happy to recount my side of the story.’_

Thomas glances between them, shoulders hunched. It looks like Damian ruined his evening as well - not only that, but his first gala.

Truly, this night is horrible.

The walk out of the building is comparable to when Damian failed at a task and was paraded out of Grandfather’s throne room for punishment. Father says goodbye to those who tried to snatch him for a conversation, allows several women to kiss his cheek (disgusting), and makes a spectacle of their exit. Thomas is quiet the entire time, wearing a troubled expression. 

The car ride home is even worse.

Halfway through the drive, Damian realizes his father intends to talk to him in the car alone. Without Thomas or Pennyworth within hearing range. That only means it’s going to be a severe lecture, and Damian is going to be left feeling utterly terrible. 

The silence is nearly unbearable. Father’s jaw is set in the way it is when he’s thinking hard about something, his grip tight on the steering wheel. Thomas is pressed against his door, arms crossed as he frowns out the window. Damian keeps his eyes closed, trying not to show how nervous he truly is. 

It was justified. What Damian did was right. She deserved to have her dress ruined.

But Damian has been wrong before, so maybe he really did act completely out of turn. 

By the time they pull into the garage, Damian feels like he’s about to go five rounds with Scarecrow himself. 

“Why don’t you go on inside, Duke,” Father says gently. “Damian and I will follow in a minute.”

Thomas nods jerkily and slides out of the car. The door closes with a damning thud. Damian tracks him as he hurries into the manor.

“Damian.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Front seat.”

Damian grimaces, but does as he’s told and clambers into shotgun. The silence is even worse, the tension palpable. He crosses his arms and draws his knees up to his chest - it’s a childish move, but Damian doesn’t care right now. Father shifts in his seat so that he can face him easily.

“What happened?” 

Damian focuses on a smudge on the dashboard. “She deserved it.”

“Damian -”

“She did!” Damian sits up to look his father in the eye, hoping his eyes burn with the righteous fury he feels within. “You weren’t there, you didn’t hear what they were saying!”

Father’s demeanor changes immediately, going from ‘scolding parent’ to ‘concerned detective’ in a split second. “What did they say? Was it about you?”

“No, it was about… it was about Thomas.”

“Oh.” Father sounds more surprised than anything. “What did they say?”

Damian slumps back down in his seat. “They called him a charity case.”

“Damian, you call him that, too.”

“That’s different. I don’t say it the way they did. That, and -” he cuts himself off.

“What?” Father leans forward and lays a comforting hand on Damian’s arm. “What did they say about Duke?”

Damian presses his lips in a thin line and looks away.

“Damian, please, I need to know.”

“I refuse,” Damian mutters. “I will not repeat the… the _allegations_ they made against Thomas. The _slander.”_

Father exhales slowly through his nose. His grip on Damian’s arm tightens ever so slightly, and it’s only several years of experience that keeps Damian from flinching. Father would never hurt him - he is not Grandfather.

Instead of letting go, Father pulls him into a hug. Damian stiffens on instinct. It’s an awkward angle, and the center console is digging uncomfortably into Damian’s stomach, but Father’s arms are warm. It only takes a moment of hesitation before Damian melts into the embrace.

Neither him nor Father are big on hugs. Needless to say, although this is strange, Damian intends to savor it as long as he can. 

“I’m proud of you,” Father murmurs. “You did well, defending Duke.”

Damian presses his face into his father’s shoulder, trying not to let the burn in his eyes become unmanageable. This is ridiculous—he didn’t even feel like crying a second ago, but his father’s quiet words of reassurance have drawn that unknown vulnerability out. Damian hadn’t realized how stressed he was over this.

Father gently squeezes him. “You’re a good big brother.”

Damian snorts. “I am no one’s brother,” he says, but his voice sounds horse, and his words hold no conviction.

“You are now, and you’re doing great at it.” Father pulls out of the embrace, though he keeps a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Damian takes the chance to scrub any lingering wetness from his eyes and compose himself. 

“Not a word of this to Thomas,” Damian sniffs. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Father pops open his car door and steps out, smiling faintly. “Lets get inside - we’ll set up a movie and see if Alfred will make hot cocoa.”

Damian hops out of the car and trails after him. “What about patrol?”

“I think Gotham will be fine for one night. We deserve a break.”

Damian _strongly_ disagrees, but once Father makes up his mind, there’s no budging him. “Very well. But I get to choose the movie.”

“Nope, it’s Duke’s turn.”

“But Father -!”

“Sorry, bud.” Father holds the garage door to the manor open for Damian. “A really good big brother would let the youngest pick.”

Damian scoffs, hating how his cheeks warm. “Fine. But just this once.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Father, does this mean I’m not grounded?”

“Oh, you definitely are. Dumping your drink on Ms. Wells’ dress was uncalled for.”

Damian crosses his arms. And here he thought he got out of it.

Father ruffles his hair before tugging him into his side. “Next time, call her out for it. Trust me, it’s much more fun to watch them squirm than to make them angry.”

Damian grins up at him. “I think I can do that.”

Luckily, Pennyworth is more than happy to make cocoa while they choose a movie and get comfortable in the theatre. Damian waits in his favorite seat, snacking on dried plantain chips, while Father fetches Thomas.. He mindlessly flips through their DVD collection, not really reading the labels.

Eventually Thomas shuffles into the room with Father. 

“Tt, finally,” Damian scoffs. “I was about to fall asleep waiting.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and flops into a chair, leaving one between him and Damian. Father takes the empty seat and slides the DVD case over to Thomas. He chooses one silently, and Father gets up to get the movie started. 

While Father’s seat is vacated, Damian holds the bag of chips out towards Thomas. He doesn’t look over, not even when the bag dips as Thomas sticks his hand inside and fishes out a handful. As soon as he’s got his share, Damian retracts his arm and continues snacking. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Thomas trying not to smile.

Perhaps being a ‘big brother’ wouldn’t be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I almost start writing a YouTube outro in the end notes of my fics, is that weird
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little snippet, and as usual comment fuel me, and steal my jars at [Batshit-Birds](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/batshit-birds) on Tumblr


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